A spark to call my own
by Sincerely Yours- C.M.D
Summary: When you're in everybody's head, it's unlikely they'd want you near their sparks. Smokescreen reflects on this during the night. Drabbleish, mentions of Mech/Mech; some Angst


**Originally posted: July 14, 2011  
>C.M.D: I feel kinda bad for Smokescreen... he never gets much love or attention. Unless he's gambling in the middle of someone else's fic. But finding a partner for him is hard... and really, I feel like there's only one mech suitable for the job~<strong>

"Smokescreen... are you alright?"

The red and blue Datsun turned to the speaker, optics shuttering in slight surprise at the other mech. "Bluestreak... you're up early," Smokescreen noted. The younger Autobot smiled faintly, nodding his helm quickly.

"Yes, well, see I was trying to get some sleep and whatnot. But I suppose I was just too excited from the party I guess. You know I never expected Jazz to get so much high-grade, and it makes me wonder where he would have gotten it all in the first place, let alone how -not like he would let me have more than one cube, which I feel is unfair, you know? Because everybody else was drinking a lot, especially Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, but then again they always drink a lot. Prowl is always busting them for storing stacks of high-grade around the base," Bluestreak rambled, his optics focused off to the side. A quick glance back at the psychiatrist informed him that he was starting to lose his audience, and in a rare show of restraint, the gunner reined his vocalizer in. "But, yeah, not very sleepy... But, umm... I-i was just... are you okay, Smokey? I mean, you seem alright, but I just... I dunno. You just seem... sad, sorta..."

Smokescreen was anything if not surprised. At the grey Datsun's words, he felt a sharp spike of fear drive through his spark though; quickly, he masked any of his shock or worry from the younger mech's concerned gaze. Smiling gently, the gambler shifted the load of datapads in his arms, raising a servo and patting Bluestreak lightly on the shoulder.

"No need to fret Blue," the multi-coloured Datsun replied. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Are you sure...?," the gunner asked softly. His doorwings flicked anxiously behind him, and the action drew Smokescreen's undivided attention. Doorwings of the Praxian were terrible mood-indicators; if one learned all the subtle lifts and flicks and the like, they would essentially know a Praxian from the inside out -without every having to spark with them. It was both a blessing and a curse, really. With that much open expression displayed through their doorwings, the whole concept of lying and deceit was hence forth demolished. Between the Praxians, there could be no secrets, and such truth had made them some of the most open, kind and trusting models of their species.

The war though had damaged all of that.

With wing bearers divided -both Praxian and Vosian- it became necessity to lock one's systems tightly in control, to keep from divulging any vital information to the opposite faction. With their hard-wired language practically forbidden to them, was it no surprise that secrets began to crop up quite rapidly, tainting the one forced to keep them?

Smokescreen could perhaps say that he didn't care. He understood the reason behind it all, and even if there weren't two other models like himself, he knew that most of his "whispering" -as it was sometimes referred to- would be lost on his Autobot comrades. Prowl himself was pretty rigid about keeping his doorwings immobilized almost all the time. Only ever rarely did one see the sensitive appendages move -and that was either out of anger or exasperation with the twins or Jazz. Bluestreak though was young, one of the youngest on the Ark to be swept up into the war actually, and he had not learned to control his emotions yet.

Maybe he didn't understand why he should.

His doorwings moved constantly, with no shame or regard to the two other Datsuns that could clearly read every single motion. They were telling Smokescreen secrets even now...

Bluestreak's early rising had nothing to do really with a swell of excitement from last night's party -in reality, it was caused by a vortex of conflicting emotions resounding in the young one's spark. There was anger and disappointment, and a deep, terrible spark-ache; no doubt caused by the twins. Everybody knew about Sunstreaker's and Sideswipe's careless berth-hopping, and about Bluestreak's misfortune about being the first mech they had interfaced with on the Ark. Things had changed lately though over the last couple decacycles: the one thing that the Autobots didn't think would happen to the Twins, did, and they seemed quite content in their relationship with the resident, number one scientist. Perceptor himself appeared quite happy as well.

But in the gunner's processor, he wondered where that left him. He had been the first to love the Twins after all...

"...Smokey...?"

Smokescreen tore his optics away from the tensing doorwings, forcing himself to look straight into Bluestreak's worried, blue orbs. If he wasn't already disturbed by how much unwanted information he had gleaned from the younger 'bot's doorwings, the gambler might of been easily overwhelmed by the deep and spark-felt look of worry reflected in the other's gaze. Instead, the older Datsun forced his smile a little wider, turning its false cheerfulness onto Bluestreak.

"Forgive me, my thoughts were wandering," Smokescreen answered. "In either case, I am one hundred percent operational, Bluestreak, so you don't need to worry yourself over my well-being. But I'll be sure to see Ratchet if anything comes up."

"...Promise?," the gunner asked. His servos were cupped anxiously before him, but his doorwings had stopped their incessant twitching.

"I promise," the psychiatrist replied.

His fake smile and cheery vocalizer seemed to finally assuage some of Bluestreak's fears. The tense doorwings fell down calmly, resting mid-way down the other Datsun's back-struts in a fairly relaxed pose.

"Well, I'd hate to run off," Smokescreen started, removing his servo from the other 'bot's shoulder plating. "But I must run along now. My shift starts shortly, and I wouldn't want to trouble Prowl any by being late."

"Oh, yes, of course!," Bluestreak piped up. "No, go on ahead. I'll just run along and get some energon from the rec room. See if anybody else is awake right now... you think there will be someone? 'Cause, not that it's a problem, but a breakfast ration just goes down easier when you have company, you know? Not that many mechs like hanging with me. Tracks says it has something to do with my attitude, but I don't quite get what he means. Everybody else likes me just fine, even old Ironhide and I know he gets testy sometimes. You know, just the other day-"

"Have a good day, Bluestreak," the older mech cut in. The gunner, somewhat thrown that he had been interrupted -it happened often, didn't it?- merely shook his helm and smiled at Smokescreen. It was amazing that he never took any offense to being interrupted so rudely.

The gambler, content that he hadn't upset the younger mech in any case, turned on his pede and continued on his way down the hall. It was only with an after thought did he stop just at the corner, looking back down the way he had come. Bluestreak was still standing where Smokescreen had left him; noticing that someone was watching him, the grey Datsun lifted his helm and grinned at the other mech.

"Bluestreak...," Smokescreen purred, processor having come to a conclusion. "Meet me later in my quarters?"

Bluestreak's doorwings fluttered heatedly, energon darkening his cheekplates. Cautiously, he looked up and down the hallway, before returning his gaze to the multi-coloured psychiatrist and smiling slightly at the older Autobot. "Sure thing, Smokey," the gunner whispered softly. "See you then."

Smirking, Smokescreen turned back around and headed for his office.

* * *

><p>'Later', as it were, found the two Datsuns curled up on Smokescreen's bed, servos wandering languidly along the other's frame. In these private moments, formed from a mutual agreement the two shared, the psychiatrist let his doorwings "whisper" to Bluestreak, glad to see the gunner's doorwings flutter back in response.<p>

Even now, Smokescreen was holding a part of himself back; keeping the younger mech from truly knowing all of him, and that, the older Datsun knew, was for the best. The Autobots already knew their fair share about Smokescreen as it was -that he was a liar, a charmer and, more recently, a hard-core gambler. But what they weren't aware of was how much the red and blue mech wheedled into their lives, stealing secrets and other not-so-guarded truths; analyzing the data and filing it away, reporting the compiled psych evaluations and other vital bits to Optimus as necessary.

Because of his ways, Smokescreen had been the best candidate to play shrink on the stranded Ark.

Coming into such a title though, distanced him further from the rest of his comrades. Medics and psychiatrists, having jobs within the same field, had to maintain a sort of professionalism at all time. They couldn't afford to get to attached to the others, knowing especially that during times of war, any or all of them could die at any moment. Ratchet was special in his case though: the medic had been Optimus' CMO was vorns, and even before the war, he had been one of the best repair 'bots on Cybertron. Him deviating from the usual path and forming friendships, even a close and loving relationship with Wheeljack, was okay for the ambulance. Ratchet knew better than anyone how to balance his life with his work, and even if all should go to the pit, Ratchet would be one of the few who could continue on if everyone else should perish; doing what he did best, repairing any 'bot that needed it.

Smokescreen wasn't as lucky.

Psychiatrists as a whole were supposed to be an anomaly. They were the kind that delved deep into their patient's processor and spark, getting to know them intimately, beyond the ways that friends or even bondmates could. In a sense, the psychiatrist almost became their patient, yet they still remained faintly detached, so they might instill the proper advice and direction to a troubled mech. What good would they be if they reflected too much of their own personality when they were trying to understand and grasp another's?

In the beginning, Smokescreen really hadn't mind when he had agreed to this role. It was a job, a continuous mission that Optimus himself had asked him to take, if only because his own natural skills were best suited for the work.

He had not accounted to be plagued by so much loneliness though.

Earth had opened so many doors for their kind: the relative peace, the available energon, the free time and space to advance many projects and ideas, both personal and for the war effort. Content, as they had not been in vorns, the Autobots latched on willingly and quickly to the new opportunities presented to them here on this planet. One, especially, was the chance to feel again.

So much emotion had been drained or just completely locked away back on Cybertron, where the war raged the most and was not limited to the two factions fighting about who would rule the planet, but more so towards the greater quest of finding enough energon with which to survive. Now though, the mechs on the Ark did not feel nearly as inhibited to hold back from the crying in their sparks.

And they were all crying, really, Smokescreen knew.

Sparks, ravaged by war and tragedy, fear and hatred, needed -no, _longed for_- the days where they had been free to connect with another; find a small bit of peace and happiness that a 'bot could call their own. The pleading of their essence was a hard thing to ignore, and the Datsun had not been that surprised when almost every mech on the Ark was suddenly pairing up. Even Optimus, when he had reported this news to the commander, had merely nodded his helm in acknowledgement; blue optics dim with understanding.

"Let them do as they wish," was all the truck had said.

Unspoken, were the words that declared that war could not take everything away from them, just because it existed, and that sometimes, deviating from the most "logical" point of action, was the right course in the end.

Smokescreen had merely slipped back off to his office after the meeting with his leader; pestered by the thoughts he had read so clearly from the masked mech. Alone, in a small squarish room that saw even less visitors then Jazz's office, the Datsun had felt all of his reserves suddenly collapse on him and anguish overtake his spark.

It was that day that he had discovered not even he was exempt from the horrid longing of his spark...

...and that he would never find another to care for him, wholly, here on the Ark.

Perhaps another would disagree with Smokescreen. No doubt, their human allies would try to make some counter-argument about how the gambler could easily find himself a partner. But they were young and childish really, more so than the Twins or Bumblebee at times, and they would not understand.

Smokescreen knew, practically had _been_, all of his comrades. They didn't have to come to his office for the psychiatrist to do his job; in fact, he found out more from a mech if he simply stayed with them in a more natural environment. He was aware of every lie, shame, pride and hope... He could easily list the number of mechs whose brutish strength was more than an act of revenge, and actually a part of their nature, and which ones were most traumatized from the war. Surprisingly, the results weren't always the most obvious candidates.

He understood them... but none of them could even begin to know Smokescreen.

And the worst part of it all, none of them wanted to.

Not that it should have mattered, really. Smokescreen, shockingly, was a stickler for his job. He didn't think he could ever cross that line with his comrades -no, he knew he couldn't. His processor, perhaps glitched as Red Alert's, had somewhere along the way stopped merely analyzing the Ark's crew and had started recognizing them as aspects of "himself". And though Tracks and Sunstreaker made it almost a hard point to believe with their antics, there was no way a mech could love -romantically, intimately and innocently- themselves alone.

It wasn't in their programming.

Love... much less a bondmate... were unlikely events to happen in the Datsun's life.

There could not be anyone he even remotely liked, or could envision a life with.

_'Not true,' _a voice whispered at the back of his processor. An image of a bar came to the fore-front of his thoughts; dark and dingy, filled with all sorts of creatures there to gamble a little themselves, and between them all, striding purposefully through the din, was a tall, royal blue mech.

_Devcon..._

How could he forget about the one 'bot he had almost befriended in the few short kliks that they were together?

Smokescreen's spark ached suddenly, wishing nothing more than to be back on Monacus, with the bounty hunter at his side.

"Smokey... is everything alright?"

Jolted from his thoughts suddenly, the gambler looked down at Bluestreak; servo rubbing gently at the bottom edge of the other's doorwings, close to the joints, to distract the other from the sudden concern that was making the appendages stiff. The gunner's intakes hitched, a purr-like exhale cycling out of his vents, the grey Datsun returning the affection to Smokescreen's headlights as he relaxed again. "All's good...," Smokescreen slurred as he continued his loving caress to Bluestreak's sensitive panels.

"Good, good...," the younger mech mumbled back needlessly, resting his helm once more on the gambler's hood. Blustreak's doorwings fluttered against the curve of the psychiatrist's servo, and Smokescreen couldn't help but smile at the secrets once again spilled toward him.

Bluestreak was happy.

That was good. Being of the same model type, and having first gleaned the horrors of the gunner's past from his talkative doorwings, Smokescreen had always made it a point to keep an optic out for the other Datsun. Parts of him almost envisioned the younger Autobot as a brother... and he would do anything he could to help Bluestreak heal. He genuinely cared for Bluestreak.

Another flutter of doorwings.

Apparently the gunner was beginning to fall in love once again, not afraid of the emotions swelling in his spark...

Smokescreen felt his smile fade a little, optics dimming sadly. He hoped, for both of their sakes, that Bluestreak was not falling for him. He could not offer anything to the young mech, and he would be loathe to hurt him because of his own detachment. After all, he could not love...

Once more, the image of Devcon came to his processor.

Well, perhaps, just perhaps, he had found someone of his own... A mech even more mysterious than himself, that exuded such power and tortured wisdom that called to the multi-coloured Datsun; resounding painfully familiar in his spark, and yet, entirely different.

Or maybe it was just his processor focusing on another Autobot that the psychiatrist was not obligated to analyze, building illusions of love and desire out of the freedom of not needing to know every detail about another 'bot's processor.

Smokescreen could not say.

But he offlined his optics all the same, holding Bluestreak a little closer as he slowly slipped into recharge; allowing his spark the rarest treat of simulations created from deep, desperate wishes of passion and love.

Losing himself in the pretend sensation of strong arms wrapped around his frame, just under his doorwings, and the sound of a spark pulsing against his audio receptor that he could call all his own...

**C.M.D: Makes you just want to hug him and love that poor lil' shrink, don't it? If only he could see Devcon once again~  
>Be kind; give me your mind: REVIEW, please?<strong>


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